Prickmedainty Poetry

Shadow Maide

Oh, there's a girl grown gaunt with dreams—

she fed too long on wishful things

made of airy wings of gossamer,

with no meat or bone or blood

to sustain her wistful frame.

Now the daystar blazes

too bright for her face,

and even the moon

calling her name

with silvern rays

burns like

shadows

on fire.